don't die press

3 poems

by , on
2021-06-10

New poetry by Christine Moretto Wishnoff

Chalked

A chalk message
Spells out contention,
#BLM on SF retaining wall
Tempered lines of white control.
Where is the outrage
When chalk lines go DOA?
A child’s fairytale:
All will end well
Outlined in rainbow.
Disturbance on private property
When barbarism holds the lease.
Respectable racism
Maligns with good intention.
All the shades of brown and black
Moved to the back of the 64 pack.
Crayola must have had a reason
To make “flesh” a color for all seasons.

Musings on Patriarchy

by , on
2020-12-03

New piece by Connie Woodring.

Gun held by male hand pointing down, surrounded by smoke.

My very first memory. I was three years old, playing in the sandbox with other kids.

In a flash, a boy hit me in my face with his metal shovel (no plastic in those days.)

It was my first sight of blood, my blood.

I still have the scar on my right eyebrow.

At a very young age I was introduced to the Old Maids card game. The picture of the ugly old white lady who never married scared the bejeesus out of me. I swore I would do everything in my power to not end up like that! It wasn’t until much later in life that I asked whoever was listening, Why isn’t there a card game called “Happy Black Bachelor?”

Even though my grandmother was an atheist, she and other relatives insisted I go to Sunday School and church. I dutifully obeyed and read the Bible from cover to cover the summer of my seventh year. It meant nothing to me, and I couldn’t pronounce all the names with letters of more than eight. However, one thing stuck with me. Eve was the cause of humanity’s downfall and was responsible for making all women suffer in childbirth. Unconsciously, I, being female, determined I was a horrid being and could never redeem myself.

In 5th grade the classroom bully regularly pushed me around into swings and seesaws.

I told me mother. She boldly ordered, “Push him back!”

I did push him, except it was into traffic, and he narrowly escaped severe injury.

However, he never bothered me again.

In 6th grade another class bully (who was always nice to me) got throttled by our teacher.

We horrified classmates listened as he was pushed into iron coat hooks in the cloak room.

He screamed and was smacked.

When he and our teacher came out of the torture chamber, we sat silently staring straight ahead.

No one ever talked about this incident, but we never saw that class bully again.

As a geometry student in high school, I was ordered to leave the room by Mr. B——. “Woodring, you can leave by the door or by the window!” The window was three stories high.

My crime: I couldn’t understand a geometry concept and asked for help. Years later, feminists bemoaned the fact that females are under-represented in math and science fields.

Like the 6th grade classroom experience, all students looked straight ahead and didn’t say anything to me after class.

When I was a psychiatric social worker at a state hospital, I was attacked by a male teenage patient.

I was in a bathroom stall.

I heard the outer door open but no sound.

When I opened the door, this patient lunged at me, putting his hands around my throat.

I always dreamt that if this were ever to happen, I wouldn’t be able to scream.

However, I found my very loud voice, and the boy ran out.

I reported this incident and made a formal complaint, indicating that in my professional opinion such a patient should not have been granted open ward privileges.

The response from the superintendent was, “Are you sure you didn’t provoke the attack?”

My ex-husband stereotypically did not like my mother.

On the last occasion that she visited us he blew a hole in the living room wall with his double-barrel shot gun.

His response, “Oh! I was just cleaning it. I thought it was unloaded.”

My mother and I never spoke of this incident, but I read the fear in her eyes.

He always threatened to kill me if I ever left him.

A year later I divorced him, considering it would be better to be shot by him than to live the rest of my life as a dumbified and mummified wife.

An American white woman friend of mine dated a black man. Her next-door Nazi neighbor who had a portion of Mein Kampf tattooed on his bald head came to her door one day and threatened, “Get rid of your n— or watch him hang from my oak tree!” She obeyed.

On 9/11 a colleague came into my office at the end of a most horrendous day.

She was smiling, and so I asked, “Didn’t you hear about what happened?”

Her answer, “Oh, yes. That’s why I’m so glad! Today is the Rapture when all the sinners will die, and I will be going to heaven—probably tonight!”

Since she wasn’t an Islamic terrorist, I realized I had just had an encounter with a born-again.

At a ripe old age, I died and went to heaven, although I have no idea how that happened. In spite of reading the Bible, I believed in God until I was 19. It was then that I took a sociology of religion course in college and never looked back.

Now I am quite bored as I listen to God’s incessant poetry: “I Blessed America,” “I Work in Mysterious Ways,” “I am a Jealous God and There are No Other gods Before Me.”

I amuse myself diagnosing God: insecure megalomaniac, misogynist, sociopath, Extreme Patriarchitis.

I long for the day when a non-gendered being of some sort will emerge to never want to rule the universe.

Only then will I be able to finally go to sleep.

2 poems

by , on
2020-09-08

2 new poems by Naomi Borkent

All Mothers Were Summoned When George Floyd Called Out For His

A black man lays cuffed on the ground
A white man’s knee crushing his neck.

He calls out for his Mother.
His dying breaths, to plead for his Momma.
To plead for air, for breath.

Mine catches in my chest. 
I want to turn away, I don’t want to see.

I don’t want to see the fruit of generations of hatred, systemic discrimination and abuse.

I want to say: “I don’t see colour!” But I do.

I see you, I see you, I see you. I do not understand your pain. I cannot. But I understand my privilege.


Skin That Looks Like Mine

Skin that looks like mine, you see in magazines. 

Skin that’s white. 
Pale, translucent and milky. 

Skin that says: “Eurocentric Beauty”
Says: “Sorry, Officer. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

But skin that looks like his
Skin that looks like hers…

Chocolate, latte, cinnamon
Kissed by the sun, made of Earth

Says: “Where are you really from?”
Says: “You don’t belong.”

One whose tongue remembers the language of their great-grandmothers…but speaks English instead. 

I can’t pretend to understand your pain. Your righteous anger. But I stand with you.